


Chest

by mystery_deer



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Brotherly Love, Everyone Needs A Hug, Hospitalization, Hurt/Comfort, Love Confessions, M/M, More comfort than hurt, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Sherlock Being a Good Brother, and everyone gets it because this is all comfort babey, characterization is not based on the bbc adaptation, so sherlock has a lot of emotions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-24
Updated: 2019-09-24
Packaged: 2020-10-27 06:20:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20755739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mystery_deer/pseuds/mystery_deer
Summary: In a startling turn of events Mycroft finds that he's loved. This is a shock to no one but Mycroft.





	1. Rescue

Mycroft stared up into the all-encompassing darkness, hallucinating patterns and shapes creeping in and out of his vision. He focused on breathing, long and shallow. Calming. He didn’t move, he knew if he moved he’d become aware of how small the space he was in was and then he would panic. He couldn’t panic. Couldn’t move. He focused on breathing.

He wondered where he was and if he would di- he wondered where he was. It had been awhile since he’d heard anyone outside, he didn’t know if that was a good or bad thing. He made the mistake of moving just a bit, out of habit and pain shot up his leg again, radiating from his ankle. He took a sharp breath and coughed, struggling to hold back a scream. Stars ahead of him, stars in the endless sky. 

He heard someone moving fast and then stopping, knew they had seen him. He breathed, focused on breathing in and out. Closing his eyes was the same as keeping them open and he’d found that it was impossible to have a firm grasp on anything like that, even his own consciousness was dubious. Waking and dreaming had melted together, time was...time was...he wondered where he was and if-

The person outside was joined by others and there was talking, shouting then quiet. “Is anyone in there?” He heard a voice ask from outside and the sound startled him. He almost answered on impulse but grit his teeth together. Remembered his training. He focused on breathing. His ankle throbbed.

“No answer I think there’s…” the voice wandered away and then came back with someone else. “...Open it?”

“I don’t…” Mycroft tuned out the conversation, closing his eyes and then opening them. How much air- No. No. Breathe. 

God, he hoped any blood would come out in the wash.

Light pierced through the darkness and Mycroft discovered that yes they were indeed open because the disruption bordered on painful. Instead of stars or triangles or static lines there was the familiar (deeply troubled) face of the detective inspector Lestrade. 

His skin was ruddy and his clothes were messy, his jacket hanging off his shoulder and tie undone. He looked like hell and his eyes were wild, mouth screwed up in a worried frown as he gazed down at Mycroft. He assumed that he must also look like hell.

“Good day Inspector.” Mycroft said, making no move to sit up. The world was so ceaselessly loud, he had forgotten that. The police helicopter did nothing to help. Another face popped into his field of vision. “Ah, and Doctor Watson.”

“Can you stand?” Asked John, leaning down and looking at Mycroft’s ankle. Mycroft preferred not to look at his ankle and this seemed to be the right choice given Gregory did and then immediately had to move away and walk in a small circle covering his face.  
“Greg tell them we need a stretcher!” John called out and Gregory nodded, running off and shouting.

“Oh no.” Mycroft said, not knowing why.  
“Mycroft? Can you understand me?”  
“Yes.” He replied, looking up at the sky. It was late evening, not night. Still plenty of daylight left.

“Good. Do you know where you are?”  
“No. I’ve been kidnapped and stuffed in a- what is this? A chest? I have no idea where I am.”

John nodded and continued through a rehearsed list of questions until medical personnel arrived and carefully helped Mycroft onto a stretcher. He looked back and chuckled slightly, receiving several odd looks as a result. It was a chest after all.


	2. Runneth over

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tensions are high, feelings abound.

Greg sat in the waiting room and tapped his foot nervously as Sherlock paced. John was the calmest out of all of them, standing with his arms crossed watching the door. 

“If he’s not in critical condition why can’t we see him?” Sherlock asked aloud, pausing and throwing an arm up. “What kind of sense does that make?”

“They said they think he’s not in critical condition, they need to make sure.” John clarified. Sherlock made a noise that made it clear he didn’t care for the distinction. John held out a hand and it was taken, he used it to draw the detective’s form to his own. “It’ll be alright.”

Greg smiled suddenly and laughed, low in his throat. “Do you know what he said? I rode in the back of the ambulance and I was...God I was so scared, he looked awful, when we first saw him didn’t he John? He looked...but in the ambulance he asked if he could comb his hair and they said no, obviously.” Greg’s smile turned into a grin, he threaded his fingers together. “And he sighed and said, completely seriously ‘this is the worst day of my life.’” 

John looked worried as Greg let out a long laugh that slowly devolved into silence and then shallow sobbing.   
“He’s a Holmes through and through.” John sympathized, patting his friend’s back. Sherlock disentangled himself and began pacing again. 

“Excuse me?” All three of them paused and turned to the voice, which belonged to an extremely bored looking doctor. “You can see him now.”

___________

The entire room was an unpleasant shade in between white and beige, it was unclear whether this was the intended color or if years of wearing away had reduced it to the state it was in now. Either way it wasn’t very uplifting.

“Mycroft!” Sherlock reached him first and reached out as if to touch his hand, then retreated back a step. Neither of them commented on it but the moment rippled like a stone in their chests.

Greg embraced him immediately, it almost hurt enough for Mycroft to tell him to stop.   
Almost.

“God, are they sure you’re ok? You still look worse for the wear.” Mycroft turned to look out the window and Gregory let him go, mumbling about it being dark. He missed the warmth.

“What wonderful bedside manner doctor.” John tsked and took Sherlock’s hand, Sherlock nearly jumped then shook his head. Shook his hands out at his sides as if there was something on them. He took a breath.

“You...you were gone for a week.” He said, voice strained. He didn’t sound like he was about to cry, more like he was on the verge of shouting. “Did you not have guards?”

“Sherlock…”  
“Did you not have security with you?” John tried again to calm the other man but he would not be stopped, thrown into a fit as if by magic but Mycroft saw. He knew, he could tell the signs.   
“Sherlock leave him alone!” Greg, who had moved to open the curtains, said over his shoulder. John let go of Sherlock’s hand and let him pace. 

“Don’t yell at him.” John said, and Mycroft closed his eyes halfway. Everything was blurry. He still felt like he was in that damned chest, locked away from everything. He breathed. John stuck his arm out slightly so that it could be taken if needed. “Don’t yell at him.”

Sherlock lunged forward, almost as if he tripped, and his face was tooclosetooclosetooclose and his eyes were wider than Mycroft had seen them in awhile. His face was red, tears dripping from his eyes onto his brother’s cheeks. 

“YOU WERE GONE A WHOLE WEEK!” He shouted, might have roared but his voice was never deep enough for that. It shrilled and peaked and hurt. It must have hurt, Mycroft thought. “A WHOLE WEEK!” It must have hurt.

He wrapped his arms around Sherlock and drew him close, held him as tight as he could. He remembered them being young and doing the same, holding him close despite the flailing limbs and outrage and now they were breathing. In and out, in and out. Sherlock sobbed, allowed himself to sag and Mycroft sighed.   
“Brother mine, brother mine, brother mine…” He said softly, running a hand through his hair. He hadn’t been taking care of it recently, so many tangles. 

Greg sank into a chair and sighed, relieved and tired as John inspected the room and made asides about the quality of everything. 

Mycroft closed his eyes. They burned.


	3. Coffee and Smoke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock have a conversation and are generally in love.

In the night John woke up but find Sherlock gone. They’d all been allowed to stay overnight due to Greg being an officer, Sherlock being Sherlock and John going to the bathroom to avoid being seen.

He checked the small room again to see if his companion was hiding or had fit himself somewhere small and out of sight. Finding that Sherlock was indeed gone he slipped out the room quietly and made his way down the too-bright halls.

He found him in the hospital cafeteria. He stood out so starkly against the white and blue decor that there was no possibility of missing him. He walked over and sat down across from him, taking the cigarette out of Sherlock’s mouth and putting it into his own.   
“John.”  
“No smoking.” Sherlock rested his chin on the palm of his hand, unable to stop himself from being enamored by his partner.

“I see.”  
“You alright?” John asked, letting the smoke seep from him slowly. When Sherlock smoked he resembled a house on fire but John had a way of making the act seem elegant.   
“Yes.”  
“Your brother was kidnapped and you had a breakdown, that doesn’t seem like alright to me.”

Sherlock got up and John thought for a moment that he was going to leave the room and potentially the hospital altogether but instead he just made his way over to the coffee machine and came back with two paper cups.   
“Why did you ask if you already had an answer?” He asked, setting the two cups down. John looked at him.

His already gaunt face looked hollowed out and haunted, his normally lively and warm brown eyes had taken on a dullness that was highlighted by the tensity of his shoulders. The clenching and unclenching of his jaw. The shaking of his hands.

John felt his heart constrict and he reached out across the table to rest a hand out on it, palm up. Sherlock took it immediately, sighing and staring off into space. John waited and they passed a few minutes in loving silence.

“I was so afraid.” He started, picking up his cup of coffee and then putting it down again. “I was terrified that I’d lost him. That I wouldn’t be quick enough or clever enough or that...that I could be the quickest, cleverest man in London and it wouldn’t matter.” He smiled and it vanished as quickly as it appeared. “After all, what can I do to outsmart a gun?”

They both thought of the video. Mycroft tied to a chair with a sack over his head that was stained red. Was stained redder as the seconds passed. John remembered Sherlock rocking back and forth, moaning nononopleasenonono until one of the men hit Mycroft’s shoulder and the other man gasped himself conscious. Breathed himself alive.

“It’s no use dwelling on what-ifs.” John said. Sherlock squeezes his hand and he got the distinct feeling that he was being comforted, not the other way around. “What-ifs will eat you up inside.”

“My father used to say that he was too busy to dwell.” Sherlock said. “He was always...and my mother too, they were both…” He paused, both men could hear the words twisting themselves in his throat. 

“They…” He dropped that line of thought and began again. “Mycroft was the only person who cared for me back then, the one person I had and even though I have…” His eyes flitted across the table and caught John’s. “Wonderful, dear people who care for me now. To lose him would be as if I’d lost both parents in one blow.”

John nodded and the two of them were silent again. Somewhere an air conditioner turned on and whirred softly.

“He’s going to be okay now Sherlock.”  
“I shouldn’t have yelled at him.”

John watched his partner frowning into vacant air and continued staring until he caught his eye and held it. He brought his hand and in extension Sherlock’s hand, to his mouth and bent down slightly to administer a kiss onto it.  
Sherlock huffed delightedly and John couldn’t help but grin.

“What a roguish man I’ve chosen to love.” He said, voice lilting with gaiety.   
“I’m just here to pass the time with you Darling.” He said, his voice raspy from smoke and sleep. “Stay here a moment and dwell with me.”

The two of them laughed privately to each other and turned talk away from violence. They spoke of the lights and the noise from the far off machine and of how Mrs.Hudson would be no doubt out of her mind with worry and they really should call the poor woman soon. 

All the while the paper cups that sat by their elbows cooled minutely without their notice. Hours went by and eventually the two men’s conversation lulled into silence as they slept. Sherlock with his head nestled in the crook of his arms and John with his cheek being propped up by his fist.  
They slept undisturbed for so long that the sun began to crawl its way into the room and shine its light on the scene, warming both their bodies and the coffee until it was ready once again to drink.


	4. Sunshine and Mirth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg and Mycroft have a conversation over breakfast.

Mycroft woke up tired and stared aimlessly into the space ahead of him. It was morning. He felt like he hadn’t slept at all. It was seven in the morning and he wanted to go home.

Sherlock and John were gone as was Greg and he wondered if they’d gone to stretch their legs or if they’d gone home in the night. He thought for a moment about ripping the wires and bandages off of him and leaving the room and the fact that he thought that demonstrated perfectly why he needed to be in the hospital.

He looked up when the door banged open loudly. A woman’s voice shouted for quiet and Greg looked sheepish as he hobbled into the room. He was carrying two plates and had kicked open the door with his foot.   
“Sorry, sorry!” He called out to both Mycroft and the woman. “I hope I didn’t wake you.” He apologized, setting down one plate on the small table that sat beside Mycroft’s bed. He set the other plate down on his knees and began opening a small packet of syrup. 

“No, I was already awake.” He assured him, looking disdainfully down at the food that was presumably his. “Ah, hospital food.”

“Yep, it’s awful.” Greg said, a touch too cheerful for a man who’d spent the night sleeping in a chair.   
“Do you know where my brother and doctor Watson have run off to?”  
“Yeah, they’re sleeping in the cafeteria.”  
“Why on earth?” Mycroft sighed and Greg grinned. “Those two are always such a handful.”

“You’re telling me.” Greg groaned, though that could have been due to the sausage he was practically inhaling. “The nurses said you could eat, and that you should eat. They made me promise to make you eat.”

“I’ll need no persuading.” Mycroft promised. He examined his fingernails.  
“...Hm, so are you going to eat now or?”  
“I assure you I’m ravenous it’s just...everytime I lay my eyes on that plate I suddenly find that my appetite has dissipated.”  
“Your vocabulary sure hasn’t.” Mycroft looked at the other man and frowned but was comforted by his warm smile. Teasing then. Well, two could play at that game.

“Your smile sure hasn’t.” Greg tilted his head. “By which I mean your smile is as big as ever.” Greg tilted his head to the other side. “I like your smile is what I mean and I’m glad that you continue to have it.” Greg laughed and Mycroft closed his eyes. Two could evidentally not play at that game.

“Your flirting is horrible and I love you.”  
“I was not fli- you.” He blinked. “You love…” The two of them looked at and away from each other shyly, Mycroft trying his best not to blush and Greg not disguising his. 

“Yeah, uh…” He set his plate down at his feet and grabbed Mycroft’s, stabbing something with a fork and holding it out to him. “Come on, you need to eat.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. Oh, Greg’s neck grew red when he blushed. He mentally slapped his forehead like a comic book character. Gregory, his name was Gregory. His name was Inspector Gregory Lestrade.  
“I’m serious! Just let me…”  
“Oh Inspector I never knew you to be such a romantic.” Greg rolled his eyes and Mycroft decided that it was fine to call him that in his mind.   
“If you’re going to give me grief you can starve!” 

Mycroft smiled and closed his eyes, opening his mouth. Greg had chosen pancakes with fruit though the fruit he’d chosen was dry blueberries and sticky grapes. He chewed and swallowed, opening his mouth for a second bite.

They continued in silence for awhile before Mycroft held up a hand and took a drink of water.   
“Thank you Gregory.” He said. “For this and for coming to my aid yesterday.”  
“Oh.” Greg looked as if he didn’t know whether or not to be happy. “Yes I um..I’m glad I could.”

Mycroft saw his eyes flit to his ankle, which he still refused to look at even though the nurses assured him that it was in a proper position. He couldn’t. 

Greg remembered seeing Mycroft in the back of the ambulance, overwhelmed by the lights and the pain and the noise and retreating deep into himself. He saw his grey eyes glaze over as he left himself running on auto-pilot. He remembered his hair sticking to his head in dark red patches and that horrifying ankle and he remembered how near the end of the ride he’d began to cry and reached out, making a motion as if struggling to grasp onto something and on instinct he’d taken his hand. He remembered that it was cold and sticky, his heart had pounded.

“I’m fine.”  
Greg lifted his head quickly and widened his eyes, confused.   
“I’m fine.” Mycroft repeated, looking down. He squeezed both of his hands together and brought them up to his chest, pressing them against his skin.

They both stayed quiet for a moment. Gregory setting aside the plate as Mycroft began to tremble, his hands pressing harder and harder against his chest.   
“Hey…” Mycroft coughed. “Hey, Myc…” He sobbed and it was as if a tower had been brought down because of one loose brick. His body crumbled and collapsed into tears. Greg had seen this before in some victims of traumatic events. Once the adrenaline of rescue and pain had worn off there was so much to shift through.

He moved to hug him but stopped and remembered John, how he made himself like a perch for a bird. Never imposing.   
“Is it okay if I hug you?”  
“Pleasedon’t.”  
“I won’t. Do you want me here?” He asked, looking towards the door. “Should I get the nurse or your br-”  
“No, no please don’t I can’t...please Greg just stay here beside me.” He curled up on himself and sobbed. “Pleasedon’t.”

Greg sat down again and waited. After a few minutes Mycroft held out a hand and he took it.   
“The only two times I’ve gotten to hold your hand have been when you’re crying.” He mused. “I think I’ve got this on lock, if we keep this up I’ll have you sobbing through our first kiss.”

Mycroft looked at the man holding his hand and thought a thousand times over that he loved him.   
Greg worried that Mycroft’s blank stare indicated that he might find himself dismembered in a trash can by the end of the day.

“Sorry, I’m.” He laughed softly. “I’m always joking. And I’m not...I’m not the brightest, not like you- you’re uh...literally THE brightest and I could never hope to catch up.”

He thought of John again, falling in step with Sherlock. He thought of the two of them at crime scenes, John taking notes for the case and for his articles and he thought of how wide Sherlock grinned when his doctor would make an observation or a comment. Would ask a question that showed that they were on par with each other. He thought of how his own questions were always frantic and confused, he was always lagging behind and tripping on his shoes.

“I’m sorry for that. And I’m sorry for just blurting out that thing about, loving you and all.” He scratched at his five-o-clock shadow and avoided Mycroft’s eyes which were still boring into him. “It’s not the time. I have a hard time with that sometimes, which is good for police work but not very good for uh relationships. My ex can tell you that.” He laughed again. “So...sorry.”

There was silence again for a beat before Mycroft squeezed Greg’s hand and asked for him to feed him again. Greg felt his face burn, god he was so stupid. Why did he go on a rant? What was that all about? He wanted to crawl into a hole and die, he wanted-

As he leaned in to bring the fork to Mycroft’s mouth he suddenly lurched forward and planted a chaste kiss onto Greg’s lips. He froze, mouth open and eyes fixed on Mycroft’s which had opened and radiated smugness. He leaned forward again and ate the bite of food that had been on the fork.  
“Does…”  
“Hm?”  
“Does this mean you like me?”  
“Yes Detective Inspector Gregory.” Mycroft said, amusement oozing from every word. “I would think that me kissing you might be a strong indicator that I ‘like’ you Detective Inspector.”

Greg couldn’t help the grin that spread over his face like honey and the laugh that burst from him like light. He was all sweetness and mirth and Mycroft bathed in it, eyes shining with awe.   
What had he done? He wondered. How had he managed to get this wonderful man to love him?

The door opened once again and the two of them turned to see a very tired Sherlock and John shamble into the room, wiping their eyes and yawning.   
“Welcome back, you missed breakfast!” Greg said jovially, taking Mycroft’s hand again. Sherlock smiled slightly at the confirmation that all was well before making his way over to Mycroft and taking his remaining hand. 

“John and I are going to head back to Baker Street. Mrs.Hudson is probably worried sick about you and the food here is inedible.”

“Do you want anything?” John asked, opening the windows that had been closed in the night due to the chill. “We can fetch you some things from your flat.”

“Which one?”  
“We can fetch you some things from the store.” Mycroft smiled and squeezed his brother’s hand. It wasn’t shaking anymore, John was a miracle worker.

“I don’t need anything. Take Gregory with you.”  
“No way, I’m not leaving you alone.” Mycroft felt his heart skip a beat.  
“How gallant of you, however I’m of course not alone. I have people on every floor.” Seeing that this did nothing to persuade the man he sighed as if put-upon. 

“I suddenly remembered, I haven’t brushed my teeth in about a day. Gregory would you be a dear and get me a toothbrush?” He paused and grimaced. “And a comb?”

For some reason that made everyone in the room erupt into laughter. Mycroft furrowed his brow.   
“What? What’s so funny?” 

John left, his laughter trailing down the hall. Sherlock let go of his brother’s hand and went to follow him, smiling wide.   
“Nothing!”  
“Sherlock.”  
“Why don’t you ask your new companion~?” He teased, quickly rushing out the room as his brother’s face reddened. 

“Sherlock you-!” He had no time to dwell on his righteous anger however as Greg had turned his head towards him and kissed him. Kissed him the way Mycroft had thought was a fictitious invention. 

“Oh.” He said, blinking. Greg raised an eyebrow. Or he tried to, both of them crept their way up. 

“That good huh~?” Mycroft smirked and combed his fingers through the man’s hair. 

“The toothbrush.” He reminded him. “If we’re to do any more of that.”

Greg nodded and left the room. Mycroft could hear him whistling through the door and through the open window he could hear John yelling for a taxi and imagine Sherlock watching him. He could imagine all three of them meeting and melting and for some reason he felt tears make their way down his cheeks again as he lay back onto his pillow and let himself laugh.

He felt as if he were buzzing with happiness and he didn’t know where it had all come from but he was so glad it was there with him. He embraced it wholeheartedly, knowing that he would no longer be alone ever again.


End file.
